Winter Concerto in F Minor
by Cherusha
Summary: After losing the love of his life, Raoul spirals into depression and Erik sells his soul for revenge. In which revenge never goes according to plan, truths are exposed, and a chance at happiness comes in the most unexpected ways. Slash. Erik x Raoul
1. Prologue

**Winter Concerto in F-Minor**

* * *

Prologue:

* * *

They couldn't stop the bleeding. Raoul knew it even before the doctor had opened his mouth; the grey eyebrows were drawn together, the lips set in a tight grim line, the eyes downcast and resigned all signs of what had turned inevitable had the realization sliced into him with such as sudden force that he staggered backwards with a sharp cry. The doctor reached out to steady him, but Raoul jerked quickly away. He felt like all the heat had rushed out of his body in those few seconds, and he was left shaking in a world devoid of light and warmth. The doctor sighed and shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry..."

"No." Raoul pushed him aside and ran into the bedroom, before stopping to a halt at the foot of the bed. The nurses had moved aside respectfully, departing from the room to allow the husband a moment of private intimacy with his dying wife. Raoul felt his bones freeze up, felt himself breaking apart at the sight of Christine lying there so weak and yet deceivingly as alive as she ever was. He quickly suppressed the lump moving dangerously up his throat and walked gently to his wife's side. "Christine," he whispered, grasping her small hand between his, bending down to kiss it perhaps one last time.

She turned her head towards him. Her face was drenched with sweat, her complexion a bloodless white, but she still smiled exactly the same way she had when Raoul first fell in love with her. "My love," she said breathlessly and tried to reach out with her other hand, but was too weak to lift it, and she collapsed back with a sigh. "My love, how is my little Jacques?"

Raoul bit back tears. Not one minute after he had been born had little Jacques stopped breathing entirely. The midwife had taken his lifeless body from the room before Christine had a chance to realize anything was wrong with her baby, something Raoul was eternally grateful for. Even as his chest clenched painfully, he still managed to smile back. "Asleep, my darling," _forever in the dark_. "Madame is watching over him; lay your worries to rest."

"Oh, how I long to hold him in my arms."

Raoul stroked her hair softly. "You shall, love. When you are stronger. Just take care to get your rest now so that you may heal more quickly."

Closing her eyes, Christine sighed and shook her head. She looked into the man she had grown to love, remembering the blissful months they had spent together. They flew by so fast, and now there was hardly any time left. She desperately wanted to ease his suffering somehow, but all she could find to say was, "Don't be sad, my darling Raoul. Please don't be sad."

Raoul had buried his face in her hand as soon as he felt hot, stinging tears start to spill over his eyes and down his cheeks. Pain swelled into Christine's heart. "Don't cry, my brave soldier. You are so strong, don't shed your tears for me."

Raoul pressed his face deeper into her palm, a choked sob escaping his lips. "What are you saying, Christine? You will get better. You will." _Please don't leave me. You are all I have. All that's worth living for._

"Raoul, please." She paused, taking a shaking breath. "Please take care of Jacques. Make sure he grows up to be a strong boy, just like his father. Love him in my place."

"Christine..."

"I'm so proud of you, Raoul. Do you remember when you came to rescue me? My hero. You were so brave then. You must continue being brave for both of us. For Jacques."

She nudged Raoul's cheek with her fingers so that he would look at her once more, even if it did break her heart to see him so broken. But she needed to make sure he was listening. "Promise me, Raoul. Promise me you will go on living once I'm gone. Promise me you will love again one day, and that you will love this person as you did me. Promise me you will be happy once more."

There was nothing Raoul did not want to do more, but he nodded, unable to deny his wife this last request. "I-I promise."

Christine smiled and relaxed, seemingly at peace, and closed her eyes.

But a moment later, she stiffened up like a wooden board. She squeezed Raoul's hands in a vice grip, her breath coming in short gasps. "Oh, Raoul, why is it so dark? Is it nighttime already? Did you forget to light the candles again, dear?"

Raoul broke into a cold sweat and turned to call out desperately, "Hello there! I need the doctor! Quickly!" He jerked back to see in horror that Christine had now stretched out her other arm was clawing at something indiscernible in front of her. Her face was frozen in a wide smile. Raoul had never been more afraid in his life.

"You have come for me at last, my Angel of Music! To take me away from this place! Can you you hear that? How beautiful he sings to me!" She suddenly turned to the man by her side who had been panicked into speechlessness and cried out, "Who are you? Let me go, you brute! I want to go with my Angel of Music!"

If the words 'total devastation' could be captured in a picture, Raoul's face at that moment would have shown it perfectly. He visibly recoiled at the look of repulsion on Christine's face, at the viciousness of her tone, and dropped her hand in haste. Christine stared back at him for a whole five seconds, blinking in confusion, before lucidity took over again. Her face melted from one of disgust into one of shame; she had tears in her eyes. "Raoul," she sobbed. "Forgive me..."

She had spoken with last of her strength, as the final struggle of breath left her body. A moment later, her head hang lifelessly to the side of her pillow.

Raoul could not remember if he had screamed before the darkness took mercy on him as well.

* * *

tbc- 

a/n: Too much angst? Sap? OOCness? Spelling/Grammatical mistakes? Your feedback is very much appreciated.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One:

* * *

Though many had sent their condolences, few sought to attend the actual funeral that day. Letters from distant relatives of whom Raoul had never even met were received and notes of appreciation sent; a few chorus girls who had known Christine all signed a card that was delivered by post. But the final push came when Raoul received an eye-dazzling wreath from the managers Andre and Firmin, along with a page of flowerily written prose: _How the world has been deprived of its brightest star, sincerely M. Andre and M. Firmin of the Opera Populaire_ – it was all the smooth elegance and veiled insincerity that would flow so easily out of the pen a refined businessman. Raoul, upon taking one look at said note, had ripped it to shreds. He instructed the servants to remove this "disgusting insult to her memory" immediately from his sight or else he would not be responsible for his actions.

The servants responded with alacrity to his command; they all of them knew to

stray as far away from him as possible these days lest they too be on the receiving end of one of his explosive grief-driven outbursts. There were even whispers among a few of them as to the mental health of their master and if he would ever recover from the death of Christine, not to mention the death of his first son in the same day.

Raoul had refused anyone to touch his wife's body, had shut himself with her in their bedroom all day and all night, and would have stayed down this path before his head servant was compelled to utilize force. The de Chagny household erupted into chaos as the Vicomte attempted to strike at him with a poker when he had tried to move the body, and a doctor finally had to be called in to sedate him. Thereafter, Raoul was kept in bed and under strict watch so that he could overcome the intense stress and fatigue his body had been recently put through. But for this grieving husband it was the mind, and not the body, which needed healing the most. After a full twenty-four hours confined to his bed, he had only just been allowed to leave it for the funeral.

And in the end, there was only Madame Giry and Meg Giry with himself besides – a maid Christine had been especially fond of in attendance. The former came as she had always been publicly seen: tall and unyielding in her black taffeta dress, like the strongest oak tree in wintertime. Her arm circled around her daughter's waist, more for support, Raoul believed, than for comfort as little Meg visibly trembled as she walked. They passed him and Raoul felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. He nodded his acknowledgment in return, secretly grateful to the Girys for coming while others were so quick to forget such unpleasant occurrences once they had fulfilled the necessary etiquette requirements.

* * *

Raoul barely listened to the sermon at all. With each passing second, he couldn't help but think that Christine was not really dead, was not really lying lifelessly in the coffin before him, and was in fact at home waiting for her husband to come back. He imagined sweeping her up into his arms, hearing her laughter echo across the hall, smelling her pleasantly light perfume, watching her smile light up a room. No, she couldn't possibly be dead. They still had so much life yet to experience together. How was it possible for the sun to be shining as bright as a day like today if she was truly gone?

His chest swelled up with hope even as he knew in some deep recess of his heart that this blissful feeling was only a fool's paradise. But at this moment, he did not care if it was; he had been so emotionally drained that even through Meg Giry's heartfelt sobs, he could not find a tear left to shed. Perhaps it was better this way; tears did not nothing except give a finality to the situation. Raoul could not remember ever even crying for Jacques, only feeling vaguely hollow in the pit of his stomach.

But this buoyant feeling did not go away. To Raoul, it felt a little like chasing a rainbow; Christine was just a little ways away from him, just on the other side of the hill or across the street or just behind him. If he should turn a little to the left now, he would see her...

_"... enter not into judgment with Thy servant, O Lord, for in Thy sight shall no man be justified, unless through Thee remission of all his sins be granted unto him..."_

He just barely caught sight of it, but felt the world shift beneath his feet all the same. He had expected to see hair dancing with movement and dress lifting gently with the breeze; instead it was the shock of black cape, the glint of yellow eyes, the lingering stench of death that assailed his senses, and he felt his insides seize up in terror. But a blink later and the vision was gone.

_"… that Thou deliver it not into the hands of the enemy, nor forget it unto the end..."_

His skin still prickled like a cactus plant, as the sickening feeling of being observed by an invisible _phantom_ never left him. Raoul swung around, trying to catch the elusive apparition and was not surprised that he could not find him.

Like a magic trick: Here he is, then here he's not.

* * *

"He was here, wasn't he?" Raoul had all but ran after Madame Giry as she departed with her daughter. "Answer me, you woman!"

"Monsieur, I don't presume to know of whom you are referring to," said she in that tight, dismissive tone of hers.

Raoul fairly trembled with rage. "You already know who I mean. You brought him here, didn't you? The one who's haunted her for years. The one who haunts her still. The Opera Ghost."

Little Meg gasped audibly. Madame Giry turned to her. "Meg. Go wait in the carriage for me."

"Well!" Raoul shouted, his face whitening with ever increasing anger. He wanted to hit something, but so far the only person near was Madame Giry. All the same he felt his fists clench.

Madame Giry regarded him calmly. "Think about what you are saying, Monsieur. You are not making any sense. Erik has departed from this land of the living long before your dear wife did."

She turned to leave but Raoul grabbed her arm, holding her back. "No. He is always here." His fist clenched painfully around her arm, but Madame Giry did not give any indication of the slightest discomfort. "Tell that _Monster_," Raoul hissed these words, "that if I should ever see him again, he won't have time enough left to draw a single breath before I slice him in two. And this time, I _will_ succeed."

It was fortunate for all those around that the Vicomte did not return immediately to his wife's grave. For if he had, he would have discovered a figure cloaked in black laying down an engagement ring tied to a single red rose.

* * *

tbc-

a/n: Feedback and constructive criticism, as always, are very much appreciated. Also, does anyone know a good site with information on late 19th century aristocracy in France? Thanks.


	3. Chapter Two

Le Comtesse Marguerite Beranger Henri de Chagny was not born a motherly woman. She never married and did not have any compunction to bear child. But after the Comte de Chagny's untimely death, she had assumed the position of head of the family and as such, she was determined to protect her nephews and nieces from the harsh realities and maliciousness of an uncaring world. They had lost their parents too young, especially Marie who was six and Raoul who was only four at the time. This determination had given her an almost supernatural strength and those who purposely sought to hurt her brother's children did better to steer out of her way lest she bring her maternal wrath down upon them.

Little Raoul she was especially protective of, perhaps because he was the youngest, perhaps because he was secretly her favorite. But it was no secret to anyone that he was the most susceptible of them all, and she who was the closest thing he had to a mother, understood all that and more. It would not have worried her nearly as much, his being the sole male heir now, had she not known his character so well. Even as a boy, he showed a gentleness but rarely gifted so openly for his sex, and whereas Phillipe had liked to hunt foxes and rabbits and things, Raoul had come running home with an injured bird or a hungry stray cat, tears streaking down cherry cheeks as he begged the nurse to make them well again. He was the easiest to freely give his heart – as well as the easiest to hurt.

And when he was older, and it was both fashionable and expected of proper young men to join the navy and do duty by their country, she had sat awake every night, worried beyond belief over her Raoul. For who with such a sweet disposition could survive under such environments? If it were not for the letters she received on a regular basis, she didn't believe she herself could have survived the ordeal. But Raoul was made of tough stuff than she thought, and he served his country valiantly and with unquestionable love and pride, never a complaint to be found in any of his letters home.

And he had returned to her, and not a moment to soon. But it was around this time that she found Raoul to have changed a bit, becoming distracted and often anxious. She soon found out for herself the cause of this change, and though knew in a general manner that his was a course set for all young men since the beginning of time, it surprised her all the same when it happened. Raoul had fallen in love with a young opera singer named Christine Daae.

For the longest time she did not approve. There were so many things wrong with the match. She was an opera singer and had once even been a simple chorus girl, so completely below his rank. On this alone she had convinced herself that the girl had attached herself to his nephew purely for financial gain. Upon introduction she had prepared herself for the worse, had even promised herself, her dead brother and _his_ dead mother besides that she would not like her and would do everything in her power to deter the marriage.

Fate had other opinions, however, and against her will, she found that she did quite like her, not the least part of which was because she found a little of Raoul in the girl. Christine possessed that same gentle pleasantness, the same capacity to love. And it was no question that they did love each other very much. When they had wed, she smiled as they took turns kissing her hand. When they announced with eyes shining bright that she would have a grandnephew or grandniece very soon, she could not be happier for them both.

So it broke her heart when she could do nothing but watch her only nephew nearly destroy himself in grief when the person he loved the most was taken away from him in the most cruel and unexpected manner possible. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, the happiest moment two young married people could experience. _Too soon, too sudden_. And she cried for their love; she cried for their memories; but mostly she cried for the future that never was to be. It was all carried out privately as this grief she never displayed in front of Raoul or anyone else. Crying was a temporary loss of control over one's emotions and as head of house, she needed to be the strongest. The resilient support. She did not even attend the funeral because of this, and, sadly, she did not think Raoul would ever forgive her for it.

The exact day of the tragedy, however, happened over five months ago. Raoul had had plenty of time to grieve now, and though she knew him to be still hurting, she had to make him move forward, move on with his life. He was so young, afterall, and there would be still so much life to live.

"Raoul," she said to the door, the door behind which the Vicomte usually kept himself these days. She tapped lightly and when nothing met her implied entreaty, she sighed and went on to her point.

"Raoul, I'm inviting the Boulangers, Rodins, Captain Rousseau and a few of your late father's military friends over for dinner tomorrow night. The Rodins are bringing their daughter, Sophie. She's just been introduced to court."

Marguerite de Chagny mentally steeled herself for the next part. "Raoul, I know you are unhappy, but you must try to return to society. If not for your own sake then for your family's – you are the man of the house now. She is gone, and it will do no good to live in the past. Raoul, I expect you downstairs to greet and not embarrass this household."

She left it as that, for there was nothing more to say, and turned to step down the grand staircase, mind switching gears rapidly from concerned mother to the role of society lady. Any lingering pangs of guilt, she snuffed for the moment. There was so much to do, and besides, she had to go over the final menu preparations with the head chef immediately. A new batch of kitchen hands had recently been hired and she needed to be certain they were competent enough to handle the meal preparations. Everything needed to be perfect for tomorrow night and now she only hoped Sophie's famed beauty and pleasant nature did not disappoint.

Everyone in the kitchen was hard at work already, pleasing her greatly. A quick tete-a-tete with Anton, their rather rotund but highly capable head chef, confirmed her feeling that geese would be more appropriate to serve the guests than the duck. With her spirits lifted considerably since that morning, she flashed a kindly smile at the steward who had held open the door for her, though at first she did give a small impulsive start at seeing the faint scars on his face. _Another recently hired and older than usual_, she observed and she said aloud: "What is your name, monsieur?"

Behind a bowed head, eyes glinted and darkened. "Erik," said the steward. "My name is Erik."

"Well, Monsieur Erik," said Marguerite, "I am pleased. I hope you will do very good here."

"Yes, Madame," came the silky reply. "I daresay I will."


	4. Chapter Three

_One month earlier..._

The gypsy woman swayed, lifting herself up from her seat with great difficulty, and reached up with one bony arm to pluck a small bottle from the top shelf. Erik observed her listless manner and glassy, faraway look as characteristic of a recent injection of morphine or other drug popular among her migrant tribes. He felt increasingly unnerved as the gypsy swept a leisurely gaze up his body to level at his unmasked face. She had a striking face, not so much beautiful as rather resembling a fox who had just spotted her prey.

"What is in your heart, little one?"

She delighted in ridiculing him with such a name and asked as if she did not know of what purpose he and nearly every unfortunate came to her for.

"Revenge. That is all," he replied with conviction.

The gypsy woman did not smile, and no visitor had ever seen her smile, but one corner of her brightly painted lip twisted upward in a manner that seemed to convey a certain contempt for such a response and responder. Turning over her left fist and opening her palm, she dropped the bottle in Erik's hands.

"A glamor for illusion," she explained. "Indeed, you are too hideous for any society to accept, so this is necessary to accomplish your..." and there was a purposeful pause. "Revenge."

Erik held the bottle up to his eyes. It was a miniature green medicine bottle with a black stopper and held a murky, reddish liquid. Sniffing it brought in mind the combination of sulfur and rusted iron, but he felt an intense wave of power from simply holding the small object. _A witchcraft most powerful. _He cast a quick glance at the gypsy before tipping the bottle back and drinking its contents completely. It burned all the way down his throat, heating his entire body with its liquid fire.

The gypsy nodded, pleased at its effect. "The potion lasts but three full moons. On the night of the third moon, the glamor will crumble and the truth will be revealed." She held out her right hand. "And this, little one, is the tool for revenge. It is colorless; it is odorless, but it's effects are significant. Two drops per night will do and in time the user will be driven mad. If he finishes the entire contents, nothing will be able save him from complete and total destruction of mind."

Erik stepped forward to receive the second bottle, but the gypsy quickly pulled back her arm.

"Ah ah ah... For such powerful potions I require something more than money."

"There's nothing I would not do," replied Erik, fixing her with a cold, determined stare.

"A revenge of such hatred as this requires a sacrifice of the opposite. Would you, I wonder, even sacrifice the love of one dearest to your heart for this," she waved the bottle mockingly, "small trinket?"

Erik stifled a bitter laugh. "She died. And with her my heart."

"Oh how overly dramatic..." said the gypsy with a twist of her lip. "Such fools of love people can be." But she handed him the bottle anyway, then turned and collapsed back into her chair. Erik felt the oppressive weight of her stare. It seemed to bore straight into his skin, slice into his soul and read his fate like a book. The poison in contrast felt light and harmless in his palm.

As he walked away, the gypsy called out to him again.

"A fair warning, little one. Revenge never happens quite the way we want them to. You are advised to think things through before you act lest... well." She paused, calculating. "But it seems you will not be swayed."

Erik turned around, a sharp retort on his tongue, but the gypsy woman had disappeared behind the curtain again.

He gritted his teeth. "No. I will be satisfied."


	5. Chapter Four

He was to be the boy's footman. The very irony of his servitude made him want to laugh. To wait on him hand and foot; to serve him; to be the caring valet and loyal companion of his most hated enemy. Oh yes, he would be all those things and more. He would become the boy's friend. He would be there for him when he wanted someone to talk to. He would offer his shoulder for the boy to cry on. He would guard his deepest secrets and darkest thoughts. The human conscience was at its most vulnerable in times of grief, when one felt one was truly alone in the world, and it would be most convenient to exploit. For would not revenge taste the sweetest when it was came at the betrayal of the one person you trusted the most?

Erik had been briefed by Augustin, the head butler, from whom he also extracted the motivation behind the departure of Raoul's previous footman. The boy had become somewhat wild in these past few weeks, it seemed: locking himself up in his room, refusing to dress, and even throwing a vase at his footman's head one time. The footman had been scared, then livid. Red-faced, he stormed straight to the Comtesse, demanding reparations, and the Comtesse, kind at heart as she was, gave him extended leave of the house with a full six month's pay as her apology -- and insurance for his silence.

Thereafter in the drawing room, he met with the Comtesse herself who had wanted to speak to him on the grave nature behind her nephew's behavior before he was to report to his station. Again she told him of his unfortunate story and pressed upon him the utter necessity for delicacy in handling his duties. Feigning sympathy, Erik took the opportunity to inspect the Comtesse more closely. She held herself as proudly as an oak tree, as if a whirlwind could not knock her down, and even her wrinkles and graying chestnut hair could not hide the fact that she had been a remarkably handsome woman in her youth. It was only pity that she was a de Chagny. The light in her eyes when she spoke of her youngest nephew was unmistakably one of love.

"Raoul used to be such a happy boy," she continued. She rose from her seat and walked over to the window, staring out of the rain-soaked window into the dark, angry clouds. "He had his mother's eyes and his mother's heart," she sighed. To Erik, it was as she was almost talking to herself, enveloped in her own memories.

"He'd wanted to be a doctor, you know. He used to bring in these creatures: dog, cat, squirrel -- it used to infuriate Benoit. That was his tutor. Said he'd spend more time looking after them than in his maths lessons. There was this injured bird once... It died. How he cried over that poor creature. Phillipe, however, thought he was too soft and emotional and sent him off to join the navy -- in order to harden him, I suppose."

The Comtesse fidgeted with her necklace, lost in thought. "No, I shall never forgive him of that," she whispered.

Erik bit the inside of his cheek, feeling the hot embers of hatred rise up in him once more. Did it not speak of the brutal unfairness of this world that so many loved this pathetic wretch of a boy and would do anything for him: would pity him, would love him while Christine, beautiful Christine, was alone and cold in her grave? How Erik would laugh and cry out in joy when his revenge would be complete. He willed himself to step up to the Comtesse and bow in a demonstration of sincerity. "M'lady, I shall do everything in my power to serve your nephew. I shall attend his every need."

The Comtesse smiled at him, and Erik forced himself to kiss her hand. "Please be patient with him," she implored softly.

"Of course, m'lady." Erik replied. "The death of one's true love can cause such a man such grief, it can make him capable of anything."

As he left, he heard the Comtesse ask the rain if this winter would never end.


	6. Chapter Five

"My lord, you must permit me entrance. The Comtesse expects you to dine downstairs tonight. Her guests have arrived in these last three hours."

Erik knocked a third time at the door, but to no avail. The Vicomte was the most stubborn brat in all of France and it would be a happy day indeed when the world would finally be rid of him.

"Tell the Comtesse I am feeling _inordinately_ unwell this evening and will be unable to entertain her guests for her amusement. Please provide her with my sincerest apologies." The last line audibly dripped with jaded sarcasm.

Though separated by a solid and extremely well-crafted oak door, Erik still felt viscerally disgusted by the Vicomte's bodily presence so near -- a presence that could seep through stone walls and invade his being. He had felt it every time he spied the Vicomte and Christine together, every time they embraced, every time they kissed. Even now, the feeling had not faded the least. It made him want to punch through the wooden frame, grab the man on the other side and strangle him. As the situation was at present, however, Erik willed himself to suppress the base urges for violence that was his nature and focus on appealing to the Vicomte's vulnerable side. Delayed gratification would be the greatest pleasure of all.

He paced from side to side in front of the locked door, making sure to scuff his shoes as if nervous and agitated and unsure of what to say next. "I would abide by your order without delay, sir, only..." He hesitated. "The Comtesse will surely blame me for my failure in persuading you to join her and her company. It is my first day, and I do not wish to be seen as an instant disappointment."

Erik waited. There was an extended moment of silence wherein he was certain the Vicomte had not responded because he was weighing his choices in his favor. There were at times an guiless, almost childlike quality with which the Vicomte would unknowingly display his every thought and action for all to consume. After all, a wounded bird had once been all that was needed for Raoul to break down in front of his family and weep. If he played his cards right, perhaps Erik would become his wounded bird.

Soft footsteps approaching the door shook him out of his musings, and he took an involuntary step backward. But Raoul made no motion to open his door at all. When he finally spoke, it was in a low, hushed tone so that Erik was forced to lean his ear directly against the thick paneling to catch every detail he could: every slip of hesitancy, every hitch of breath.

"Who has come that my aunt invited?"

Recalling the list he had seen previously pinned to the wall of the staff dining room, Erik recited: "M. and Mme. Boulanger, M. and Mme. Rodin, their daughter Sophie Rodin, Lady Caufield, Colonel Richard, a Captain Rousseau... and your brother, Phillipe. He has returned."

"Yes. He came to see me earlier." There was another pause as Erik leaned closer still to try and discern the movement behind the door.

He coughed politely when the silence lengthened. "Shall I excuse you from this evening, Vicomte?"

"No... No... thank you," came finally an answer. "Tell my aunt I shall be down shortly."

Erik smirked and stepped away. "My sincerest gratitude for your kindness, my lord."

"Wait," Raoul called softly, still from behind his closed door as Erik walked away. "If you are to be my footman, how shall I address you?"

Erik's mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. What a question: So simple and yet complex in that it was asked by this man, thought Erik. "If your lordship so wishes," he replied aloud, "any title you bestow upon me, I shall honor completely. I was, if you please, christened Erik."

"Then I shall call you that."


	7. Chapter Six

"Do tell us more about Algiers, Captain Rousseau. Is it every bit as frightful and exotic as they make them out to be in the dime novels? Do the natives all live in tents and carry great big swords and cover their heads in cloth and have a dozen or so wives?"

This, Erik observed, would be the estimable Sophie. With her her curly blonde hair, big blue eyes and pouty pink lips, she was truly a physical specimen to behold. Glittering jewels dripped from her throat and dangled from her earlobes, and her dress was of the latest Parisian fashion, made of colorful satin and sloping down low enough to expose to top halves of her milky-white bosom. As she laughed, she tossed her head playfully so that her curls bounced around her, the very image of a young, vivacious and thoroughly spoiled daughter.

"Yes, and have great big teeth and eat young, pretty girls who are not careful!" warned Captain Rousseau jokingly from across the dinner table. The man displayed a tall, handsomely built figure dressed in fine military regalia. He was dark-headed and his light blue eyes -- a shade lighter than Sophie's -- gleamed wickedly as he spoke from his comfortable recline.

Sophie laughed, tossing her curls. "Oh they shan't eat me. I would charm them, and their handsome prince will fall madly in love with me!"

"Sophie!" cried Madame Rodin. "This is hardly a topic suited for the dinner table."

"Oh, mama," sighed Sophie exaggeratedly. She pouted a bit and picked at her embroidered sleeve.

"Phillipe, you and the Colonel must visit our estate in Alsace once you have finished your business in Germany," Madame Rodin interjected rather hurriedly, turning to the two gentlemen engaged in deep conversation at the head of the table. Erik took the opportunity of serving the next course as a way of navigating around the table so that he may take a closer look at the Vicomte's elder brother.

Though he learned that Phillipe was only just thirty, to Erik he looked a decade older. Deep lines already began to mar the corners of his eyes and lips, and there was a noticeable sprinkling of gray hairs in his thick, golden mane. Irritation at being interrupted from his conversation with Colonel Richard caused Phillipe to frown slightly at those quick enough to catch it. A second later, he had masked it with a polite smile.

"I shall endeavor to do my best, madame," he answered.

Monsieur Boulanger, a rotund, ruddy-cheeked man, choked on his soup. "Wouldn't do that, Phillipe. To many damn Germans crawling all over the place."

"Yes, but they do make lovely pets, do they not?" exclaimed Captain Rousseau with a wink to Madame Rodin, who promptly blushed and fanned herself.

At the end opposite Phillipe, Comtesse de Chagny had been listening intently to Lady Caufield's expose on the fashions of London when she abruptly took a sharp intake of breath, eyes pinned to the dining room entrance. Confused, Lady Caufield twisted her head to see what had caused the Comtesse such a startle. Erik, too, followed their line of sight. There he found leaning against the entrance was his hated rival -- Raoul.

This vision, however, was not of the wealthy Vicomte or charming patron of the Opera Populaire. The man before Erik was illogical and defiant and even a little insane. Nonetheless, Erik felt all at once enraged, repulsed, and helplessly curious as to the purpose of the outrageous demonstration. Raoul had forgone the proper dress code altogether. He wore a fancy floor-length white gown that was a size too small for him across the shoulders and too loose across the chest. Erik recognized it to be one of Christine's dresses from the opera house -- the one she had worn when he kidnapped her.

Eleven pairs of eyes all turned to stare in shock at the spectacle as Raoul -- not so much walked -- as glided into the dining room, Hypnotized, Erik followed the curve of Raoul's hips as he swayed them slowly from side to side like a woman.

"Raoul!" gasped the Comtesse, speechless and horrified.

Raoul lowered himself gracefully into the empty seat by Captain Rousseau and calmly spoke: "You requested I come down and join you, did you not?" His voiced was breathy and perhaps a little scratchy from too little sleep. "Are you not pleased, aunt?"

"How can you say that?" countered the Comtesse, visibly trembling, though Raoul took no notice of it, seemingly absorbed in the soup in front of him.

Whispers were beginning to take place among the guests -- an excitement that always preceded the promise of more scandal and gossip to entertain the masses. Madame Rodin's eyes darted back and forth between the pair like she was witnessing a lawn tennis game; Monsieur Boulanger's mouth hung open like a hungry dog; and Captain Rousseau kept his steady, lash-lowered gaze leveled at Raoul, the corners of his lips tugging faintly upward.

But the prolonged chitter was all of a sudden interrupted by a sharp, angry bark coming from the head of the table. Phillipe had pushed back his chair and stood with his hands gripping the table's edge as he glared furiously at his rebellious younger brother.

"If you were not my brother," he said dangerously, "I would throw you out of this house."

Raoul sipped at his wine, then looked up at Phillipe, a nasty smile spreading across his face. "If I were not your brother, then we would not be in this situation."

Though he'd been unable to take his eyes off of Raoul since he walked into the room, Erik darted a quick glance at Phillipe just in time to catch his moment of unguarded expression. He had expected rage -- and perhaps some shame -- to come out of the Vicomte's rigid, stern brother, but to his surprise, Phillipe looked to be more shaken by the words than anything else. His breath rose and fell erratically as he watched Raoul slowly draw his finger across his bottom lip, wiping at excess traces of wine.

Raoul's eyes never left Phillipe's even as he dipped his finger in the creamy soup and brought it up to his lips to taste. "Do you not approve of this, brother?" he asked, his tone conveying much more than was said. "It was my wife's. You must remember her. She was much prettier in the dress than I."

Phillipe looked away, swallowing hard. But a moment later, he relaxed back in his seat as if having made up his mind to pay his brother no more attention than was necessary. "Raoul, you are unwell," he said in a resigned tone. "Please go back upstairs."

It was also then that the Comtesse spoke up as well, remembering her duty to her guests. "Erik," she commanded, rising. "Please escort my nephew back to his room to rest, and..." she took him aside. "Make certain he drinks his medicine this time," she finished in a hushed tone. Erik inclined his head to confirm his understanding and went up to stand next to the Vicomte.

"Well," said Raoul addressing the guests. "It's been a pleasure seeing you all. I hope I have entertained you most thoroughly. Sophie, you look prettier every time I see you; Madame Rodin, shame on you for not finding her a husband yet; Captain Rousseau, I hope you will stay awhile so that we may hear even more of your amazing, harrowing tales." He paused. "And dear brother... What shall you do with me?"

With nothing more to say, he swept out of the room, Erik trailing closely behind. As they left, Erik heard Phillipe quickly apologize for his brother's wild conduct and emphasize that his behavior had stemmed from his devastating loss.

_What a grotesquely fascinating family_, Erik thought idly.


End file.
